The Day Nana Said Goodbye

Yesterday, Saturday the 7th of March 2026, we said goodbye to my Nana.

I woke up slowly, with Banjo curled up on my bed beside me. He had taken up his usual spot, pressed into the blankets like he belonged there. There was something grounding about starting the day that way — quiet, familiar, soft.

Before I left the house, I painted my nails a sage green. It might seem like a small thing, but I knew Nana would have liked my nails looking nice. She always noticed the little details like that. It felt like a small act of self-care before stepping into what I knew would be a big day.

I arrived at the nursing home at 8:45am.

The moment I saw her, I knew.

Nana was completely unconscious, breathing with that familiar pattern I’ve seen many times in my work — Cheyne-Stokes breathing. As a nurse, I recognised it instantly. As a granddaughter, my heart knew what it meant too.

This would be her last day.

I sat with her and said the things that mattered most.

I told her she was adored.

I thanked her for shaping me into who I am today.

For always being there — for me, for Aaron, and for the kids.

I told her how proud I was of her.

That I was excited for her.

And that we would all be okay.

Once I had said those things, something shifted in me.

The granddaughter stepped back a little and the nurse stepped forward.

It’s an interesting coping mechanism — to move from the deeply personal to the role I’ve been trained for. Palliative care is something I understand well. And in that moment, advocating for Nana felt like the greatest act of love I could give her.

So I spent the day making sure she was comfortable.

Ensuring she received pain relief every two hours.

Making sure she was repositioned to protect her pressure areas.

Providing regular mouth care so her lips stayed moist and comfortable.

I explained what was happening to my family — the medications, the breathing changes, the signs that told us where she was on the journey.

At 1:30pm the syringe driver was started.

I remember feeling a sense of calm settle in then, knowing she had a steady stream of medication keeping her comfortable.

At 3:30pm a second butterfly was inserted and her morphine and midazolam doses were increased. I gently explained to everyone what that likely meant.

We didn’t have long.

We stayed with her.

Talking softly. Sitting close. Holding space for her as she made her way.

At 4:40pm Nana passed away peacefully, surrounded by all of us.

It was sad, of course. Deeply sad.

But it was also beautiful.

To witness someone’s final hours with love, dignity, and comfort is a profound privilege. Being able to advocate for her — not just as a nurse, but as her granddaughter — is something I will carry with me forever.

Yesterday we lost Nana.

But yesterday also reminded me of something important:

love shows up in many forms.

Sometimes it’s in whispered goodbyes.

Sometimes it’s in holding someone’s hand.

And sometimes it’s in making sure the morphine is given on time.

But Nana wasn’t just my Nana.

She was part of the fabric of our whole family.

She loved Aaron deeply and welcomed him in from the very beginning, the way only Nana could — warm, steady, and completely genuine. She adored my children too. To them she wasn’t just a great-grandmother; she was a soft place to land, a familiar voice, a constant thread connecting generations together.

For me, she was a compass. Someone whose quiet strength, kindness and resilience shaped so much of who I am today — as a woman, a mother, and even as a nurse.

After she passed, we did something that felt exactly right for her.

We went out for dinner.

And instead of raising a single glass, I celebrated her with an entire bottle of white wine — Nana’s drink of choice. I have no doubt she would have approved of that decision completely.

Later, in the rain, Kokomo by the Beach Boys started playing and I danced.

Not politely. Not quietly. Just joyfully, right there in the rain.

Because if there is one thing Nana taught me, it’s that love and grief can sit side by side. That you can cry and celebrate in the very same breath.

Yesterday we said goodbye.

But Nana’s love — the way she shaped us, the way she showed up for us — will keep echoing through our family for a very long time.

And somewhere, I like to think she’s smiling in a sunny spot, white wine in hand.

Goodbye Nana, and thankyou for everything.